Raising My Father
by RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
Summary: The almost true story of life after my 94 year-old father moves in with me.
1. Chapter 1

My wife's a saint.

When I first asked her if my dad could move in with us, she said, "Sure, why not?" Her own father had passed away a few years earlier, and she had always gotten along with mine. Besides, he was a grown man. Self-sufficient. He used to be in the Army, for gosh sakes. During World War II. How much trouble could he be?

The house we lived in had a guest house in the front, that was separated from our house by a nice patio. That's where I enjoyed drinking coffee and reading the newspaper in the morning, and drinking coffee and talking with my wife in the evening. The kitchen was directly behind me. On the evening he moved in I was enjoying coffee by myself. I could hear her talking with my father.

"Dad," she said, "would you like some ice cream?" She was trying to be nice, and make him feel at home.

"What's that?" he answered.

"Do you want some ice cream?"

"Do I want some ice cream?"

"Yes, Dad. Do you want some ice cream?"

"Ice cream?"

"Or would you like some later?" She was already trying to cut her losses.

"What about later?" he asked. Changing the question was a bad idea. Now he had to mentally shift from reverse into first gear.

"Would you like ice cream right now, or later?"

"Ice cream right now? Oh, huh... okay, it sounds good. What flavors do you have?"

"Dad, we only have vanilla."

"You only have what?"

"I have to go to the grocery store to get more, but right now we only have vanilla."

"Vanilla... huh.. hmmm... well... well... you don't have any other flavors?"

"No, Dad, just vanilla."

"Only vanilla?"

"Yes, Dad. Only vanilla. We ran out of the other flavors."

"You ran out of what?"

"Other flavors."

"Did you say you have other flavors?"

"No, Dad, we only have vanilla."

"You only have vanilla?"

"Dad, that's all we have," she said, a bit more firmly this time. It worked.

"Well, I guess I have no other choice. If you don't have any other flavor, I guess I _have_ to have vanilla. Since you don't have any other flavor. But just give me a little. You always give me too much."

So I hear my wife take the vanilla ice cream out of the freezer, and she serves dad a bowl of it. Meanwhile, my coffee's gone cold from waiting for my wife to join me. I can hear her put the bowl in front of him, and then I hear the clink of metal against porcelain. I finish the last of my coffee, and get up to join my wife inside.

"This ice cream's not very good," I hear my Dad say. I sit back down

My life's just become an Abbott & Costello routine.

**Raising My Father**

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	2. Chapter 2

"This ice cream's not very good," I heard my Dad tell my wife.

Let me stop right here and formally apologize to my Mom and Dad for my ever having been a kid. I can't begin to tell you the times my Mom served me a perfectly good meal, sometimes even perfectly delicious, and it didn't meet the standards of a kid who used to eat dirt.* And then I had kids of my own, and, no matter what my wife cooked, they wanted to eat something else.** So when my Dad told my wife that he didn't care for the ice cream she had just served him-and which he enthusiastically ate, judging by the speed with which he ate it-I figured he had the right not to like it. So...

"This ice cream's not very good. Where'd you buy it?"

"Sam's," my wife tells him.

"Sam's?"

"Yes, Sam's," she repeats herself. Sam's is one of those Warehouse Stores, along the lines of Costco and Price Club, where you have to buy a membership to shop there, and where you don't just buy something, you buy A LOT of something. But they do sell quality goods, and one of those quality goods is their ice cream. It's not just good, it's _very_ good. Even the vanilla.

My Dad wasn't sure.

"Oh, huh... hmmm..." he clarified. "You said you bought it at Sam's?"

"Yes, Sam's," she said. "They sell some of the best ice cream."

My Dad still wasn't sure.

"Sam's..." he considered, and then considered again. "Hmmm... Sam's. Huh, yeah... well, I didn't like it. It didn't taste good. The PX sells the best ice cream."

Because of the time he spent in the military, he was able to shop at the PX at the Army base. In fact, after he retired from the military, he even worked at their PX for a few years after that. If anybody would know that the PX carried the best ice cream, it would be Dad.

"We'll have to buy some there next time," he continued. My wife patiently listened to him, like a good daughter-in-law. And I (Remember me? I'm the guy sitting outside with an empty coffee cup, waiting for my wife to join me.), I couldn't see her, but I could imagine her nodding her head and making eye contact. Big mistake. I've learned in life that if you make eye contact with someone it just encourages them to continue talking. Which he did. "I don't like the ice cream from Sam's. It just doesn't taste good."

Now he was stepping on MY toes. I happen to like Sam's. They have enough of my money to prove it.

"Yes, Dad," my wife said, politely. She likes Sam's, too. "Next time we go to the PX we'll get some ice cream."

I thought she handled that rather smoothly, since we never shopped at the PX. My Dad may have been retired from the military, but I wasn't. I had to pay for MY exclusive shopping memberships.

"Sam's..." I could hear my Dad say. I could visualize him shaking his head as he said it. "Sam's... hmmm."

I had to laugh. I was shaking my head, too.

**Raising My Father**

RaisingMyFatherblogspotcom

StuffMyPastorSayswordpresscom

jimducheneblogspotcom The _Aw, Nuts! _Humor Blog

JimDuchene

*Don't judge me for eating dirt. As a kid, I had a friend who used to eat his own boogers. The gaggle of kids I used to hang around with were repulsed, but also fascinated.

"What do they taste like?" we'd ask him.

"Salty," he'd say.

We'd offer him our own boogers-freshly picked-for a snack, but he thought that was gross. I always found that funny. Eating his own boogers was fine, but eating the boogers of others was not. I would have thought he would have enjoyed the variety. And, hmmm, now that I think about it...

I wonder if HE was picky about what his mother cooked.

**I don't know about your kids, but my kids only wanted to eat food we had to pay for. If it was free, they wouldn't want it.


	3. Chapter 3

You might think I drink a lot of coffee. That's because I do. I don't have a lot of bad habits, but if drinking coffee's a bad habit, then that's one of them. I don't drink. I don't smoke. I don't do drugs. But put a cup of coffee in front of me, and I'll make it disappear like my paycheck in the hands of my ex-wife.

So, after dinner the next day, my wife serves me a cup of coffee. I sit at the table. I look at the patio. I look at my wife. She looks at my Dad and asks him, "Would you like some ice cream before we go outside?"

"Uh..." he said. He was trying to be polite.

My wife cuts him off at the pass.

"It's new ice cream," she tells him. I look up from my cup. I didn't know my wife had gone out to get any ice cream.

"What?"

"It's new ice cream."

"What kind of ice cream is it?"

"It's new."

"New?"

"Yes, new."

Now, before you think my dad's a senile old coot, let me assure you, he isn't. It just takes him awhile for the point to sink in. It may be because of some hearing loss due to old age. Or it may be that nothing we say is of any interest to him. Or he may just be yanking out chain and fooling with us. Or it may be because he has a relaxed brain that's worked hard most of its life, and, now that it's retired along with his body, it would rather be soaking up rays on the beaches of Miami, checking out the itsied-bitsied, teenied-weenied, yellow polka-dot bikinied babes. Or maybe that's something _I'd_ like to do. I get confused.

My dad, on the other hand, doesn't. Every month, when his bank statements come in, he goes over them line by line, looking for any kind of a discrepancy. All of his investments, all of his savings, all of his expenditures... he's right on top of them. It drives the people at the bank nuts. On the other hand, it does give my dad a social life.

"Sure," my Dad says, "I'll give it a shot. It can't be any worse than what you gave me yesterday. But just give me a little. You always give me too much."

So my wife goes over to the freezer, and takes out the same container of ice cream she had used the day before. She gets his favorite bowl, and serves him... just a little. He tries it.

"Hey," he says, with enthusiasm, "now this is good! You can give me a little more."

My wife looks at me, and our eyes meet. We're both smiling. She takes his bowl, and serves him a couple more scoops of vanilla ice cream. As she puts it down in front of him, he says:

"Where'd you get this ice cream? It's good." Smack, smack. "I like the flavor." Smack, smack. "Much better than yesterday's ice cream." _Smack!_

"Your son bought it."

"Who bought it?"

"Your son."

"My son?"

"Yes, your son. He went to Ralph's this morning." Ralph's is a large grocery store chain, along the lines of Safeway, Albertson's, or the Piggly-Wiggly. "He went to the store to get you this ice cream, because you didn't like the one from Sam's."

"Yeah, that one from Sam's wasn't very good," he said. Then his voice soften, and he shook his head a bit. "My son bought this ice cream?" I guess he couldn't believe it.

"Yes, he went to Ralph's this morning, and bought this ice cream."

Smack, smack. "Yeah... hmmm... good ice cream." Smack, smack. "I can tell the difference right away. This is better ice cream." Smack, smack. "Yep, this is good."

"I'm glad you liked it, dad," my wife told him, and put the container of Sam's ice cream back in the freezer. That's why I love my wife. Because she's smart. She thinks on her feet. And she gives me all the credit.

My Dad finished up the last of the "good" vanilla ice cream in his bowl with loud smacking noises.

"There weren't any other flavors?" he asked.

**Raising My Father**

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	4. Chapter 4

My Dad was born almost a hundred years ago, give or take a decade. I find that amazing. Myself, I'm closer to the end of my life than the beginning. I'll only understand what my Dad's going through-how he feels-when I get there.

When I was about 10 years-old I broke my leg doing something stupid. Hey, I was a kid. Doing stupid things was my job. Have you ever heard of anybody breaking their leg doing something smart?

I don't remember how I got to the hospital, but I do remember when I got there my Dad was already there, waiting for me. He was dressed in his police uniform. Some nurses may have looked at him and swooned, because my Dad was a pretty handsome guy, especially in his uniform, but, to me, I looked at him and just saw my Dad. He lifted me up in his arms and carried me into the ER.

I don't have the words to explain how safe I felt in his arms. It was the last time in my life that I let myself feel like a baby. My Dad held me, and I knew everything was going to be all right.

It reminds me now of when my Dad used to drive us home late from a party or vacation. With him behind the wheel I could fall asleep without a worry in the world. I knew that Dad would get us home safely.

That's why it's hard to see him grow old. I remember the man he used to be, but I see the man he's become. The same goes for me, I suppose. In my heart I'm still 17 years-old, but when I get out of bed in the morning my body tells me otherwise.

Not to mention the mirror.

Just recently, I had an old girlfriend from high school call me at home. My wife didn't appreciate that. Somehow my old girlfriend got my phone number. I guess it wasn't too hard to do. I'm in the phone book. Anyway, she just wanted to catch up.

In the middle of our dating in high school, her family moved to Phoenix, AZ, so you could say neither of us experienced closure. Nothing gives you closure like breaking up, yelling at each other, and making sure the other person understands just how much you hate them.

She gave my wife her name and number, and asked my wife to have me call her back. I wanted to call her back, but, even though my wife said it would be okay, I never did. Instead, I looked through my old high school yearbook. There I saw pictures of my old girlfriend. 16 years-old. In those pictures, and in my mind, she's still 16. In the real world, she probably looks like one of my aunts. And _I've_ grown older, too. I understand that. I'm under no delusions.

So, the world turns. Time nudges us forward, however unwillingly. And we leave this world the way we enter it: needing our diapers changed.

Not my Dad, though. He can hold his mud, as well as his water. I have a picture of him when he served in the Army. In it, he is lifting up two of his buddies on each of his arms. My Dad was pretty ripped. The way I still think of myself as that goofy kid back in high school, I know he still thinks of himself as that guy in that picture.

Unfortunately, he owns a mirror, too.

Not that long ago we were talking about something or another. It was something I wanted to do, and something he didn't think I should do. In fact, he was rather firm in his belief that I shouldn't do it.

"C'mon, Dad," I told him, trying to impress him with my wisdom, "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

"Yeah, well, what doesn't kill you _might_ make you stronger," my Dad said, "but it can still hurt you pretty bad."

Sonuva... My old man. He impresses me without even trying.

And it doesn't help that he refers to Nietzsche as Nutsy.

**Raising My Father**

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JimDuchene


	5. Chapter 5

My Dad likes honey in his tea. Today, out of the kindness of my heart, I went to a farmer's market and bought him some raw honey, straight from the bee hive. I even bought him a flavor I knew he liked, Orange Blossom. I didn't know honey came in different flavors, but that's neither here nor there.

Later that evening, as my wife is making his tea, she tells him how I drove to the farmer's market just so he could have a local honey for his tea.

"You'll like it, Dad," I told him. "The guy I bought it from harvests the honey himself, and it's a lot sweeter than store bought honey." The honey contains no extra ingredients, and it's not cheap. It's also supposed to be good for your allergies. I tell him all that, and more. Except for the "it's not cheap" part.

And then I have to repeat myself several times after that.

My Dad picks up the jar of honey, and looks at it with interest. I wonder what he's looking at. Is he looking at its dark, rich color? This raw honey is not the clear, amber color you get at the store. Is he looking at the honeycomb inside? It's a pretty cool thing to see. Kind of like the worm in a bottle of _tequila_. (Not that I would know anything about that.) Then...

"So," he says, "you bought me a small bottle, huh?"

It's not that my Dad is ungrateful, it's just that he shows his gratitude by being ungrateful. Actually, "ungrateful" is the wrong word. Let me get out my thesaurus and try to find out what the right word might be. Hmmm... Unappreciative? Ingratitude? Thanklessness? Nope, nope, and nope.

Let me try to explain it with more than one word, then: It just doesn't occur to my Dad to be grateful. And when he tries to say something nice about something you've just given him or done for him, it comes out_, _ahem, not so nice.

Back when my Mom was still alive, my wife and I took them on a nice cruise to Ensenada, Mexico. It cost a pretty penny, true, but it was one way to pay my parents back for all those peanut butter sandwiches me and my friends ate when I was a kid.

As we were walking along the beach, my Dad looked out over the ocean, took a deep breath of that salty sea air, and said, "You know, I've been to beaches nicer than this one."

_"Honey_!" my Mom said, in her I-can't-believe-you-just-said-that voice.

Criticizing the beach we were on was my Dad's way of telling me how nice the beach was. Does that make sense? Yeah, me neither. It's true, though.

One thing I've learned about my Dad since he's started living with us, I've learned he likes to eat a salad everyday for dinner, along with the main course. He especially likes carrots in his salad.

Unfortunately, one day we were out of carrots. All we had was a bag of those miniature ones. Personally, I like them. They make for a nice snack without any of the hard work. My dog likes them, too. All miniature carrots are, are large carrots that had a few bumps or bruises on them, and can't be sold. Not even to Wal-Mart. So the carrot company will shave them down to smaller sizes. There is absolutely nothing wrong with them. They're _carrots_, for gosh sakes.

So my wife puts a nice salad, topped with carrots, in front of my Dad. He looks at it, as if he's never seen a carrot before in his life. He picks one up. Examines it, leaning it this way then that. Lifts it to his nose. Smells it. _Sniff, sniff._

"Hmm..." he says. "Huh... well, I don't like these carrots. They just don't taste right."

I couldn't help but notice he had made that declaration without tasting them first.

"They just don't taste right," he repeats. "That's the problem with growing small carrots, they don't taste as good as the large ones."

My wife and I look at each other over the salads we're eating. I eat a carrot. Yep, it tastes just like it's supposed to.

"Good salad, sweetie," I tell her. "Thanks." It's my way of apologizing.

"You're welcome," she answers. It's her way of saying she accepts my apology.

Meanwhile, my Dad hasn't heard a word we said. He's still looking at the carrots like they're what our dog leaves in the backyard in the morning. It'sour dog's way of telling us he has nothing to apologize about.

"Well, I'm not going to eat them," Dad pouts like a 2 year-old. He looks to my wife. "You should buy the regular carrots," he tells her.

"Yes, Dad," my wife tells him. She's a saint, I tell you. "The next time I go to Sam's, I'll get some."

I think about explaining to my Dad how the carrots are made. And then I think better of it.

And then I finish my salad.

**Raising My Father**

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	6. Chapter 6

**Driving Me Crazy (Part One)**

Just recently, my Dad asked me if I would drive him out of town to visit an old military friend. I told him of course, but let me check with my wife first. And so I did.

"That's a good idea," is what she said. _I could use a break_, is what she meant. What she didn't say was I once took a similar trip with my Dad a few years back, and I swore never again.

It was more than a few years ago, and my Dad wanted to travel to another state far, far away. The interesting thing about my Dad was that later in his life he gave up driving... for the most part. As he got older it was my Mom who drove them around more and more, until she was the one who always drove... for the most part. I could understand that. I used to drive for a living, and, after being behind the wheel all day long, it was relaxing to sit in the passenger seat and let my wife deal with the usual gang of idiots on the road.

My Dad would still get behind the wheel whenever he wanted to go someplace and my mother did not. And what happened the last time he ever drove, was why I found myself on this particular road trip with him. At night.

I was on a highway that he couldn't find on the map. He was a little concerned. That happens when people get older, they worry about a lot of little things.

"Son," my Dad says, he's looking out the window. It's dark. Very dark. Another thing for him to worry about. "Do you know where you're at?"

"Sure, pop," I try to reassure him. "We're just fine. I'm heading east, and I can only drive so far before I drive into the ocean." Obviously, I'm joking.

"What?" His eyes get big. Real big. "Until you drive into the ocean? I think you're lost, son. I've driven this road many times, and this area does not look familiar."

He looks out of his window again, into the darkness, and whispers to himself: "I don't remember this area. Nothing looks familiar, and I know this area. I've driven it many times." To me, he says: "You're lost."

"I'm not lost, Dad."

"I think you're lost."

"When you don't know where you are, and you don't know how to get where you're going... _that's_ when you're lost. I'm on the right road and heading in the right direction. I'm not lost."

"Son, I know what lost looks like, and you're lost."

I calm myself down-no one can push your buttons like your parents-and then I try to calm my Dad down.

"Relax, Dad. We're in no hurry, and I've got a full tank of gas. Worse case scenario, I have my faithful American Express card in case we have to stop anywhere for the night."

Dad nods his head at the last part. When a man gets older, he gets slower and slower to pull out his wallet to pay for anything. I've gassed up and we've eaten, but so far only my Dad's appetite has made an appearance.

In the meantime, his head is on a swivel, turning left and right, left and right. His eyes all bugged out as he strains to see a landmark, _any_ landmark.

"I don't remember any of this area," he says. "Nothing looks familiar. I think we're on the wrong road. I've traveled this road many times, and I'm familiar with the landmarks."

He forgets I'm looking out the windshield, too. If _I_ can't see any landmarks, I know _he_ can't see any landmarks. Apparently, my Dad must have night-vision goggles implanted in his corneas. because...

"Now, that tree over there, I don't remember it. I also don't remember any 7/11's when I drove out this way. I know this area. I think we're lost."

"We're not lost, Dad," I tell him, and then I try to change the subject. "When did you last drive out this way?"

Dad thinks a bit.

"Hmmm... ahh... drive this way. Now, I was born in 1906 (or was it 1907?). Joined the service. When did I last drive this way? Had to have been 1945, right after the war, and again in 1953 (or was it 1954?). Maybe it was 1954, because I had a '54 Chevy. Great car. I drove it back and forth many times."

I was busy falling asleep, when he suddenly snapped out of his nostalgia. "Hey, I don't remember a Wal-Mart out here! Now I know you're lost."

It was time for drastic measures.

"Hey, look at that!" I say, pointing out my window. He looks out _his_ window.

"Look at what?" he asks.

There was a fish truck passing us on the left, but, in those few seconds, it had moved in front of us, and all that was left of it were two red dots in the distance. I forget the name of the company, but the motto on the side of the truck was: "If It Stinks, We Have It."

"That's a funny motto for a company," I tell him.

"What?"

I tell him again. And then I tell him several times more.

"What?"

It was time for drastic measures...I change the subject again.

"Hey, Dad, what's that?" I say, pointing out his window this time.

He looks out into the night. A night so black David Chase could have used it to end _The Sopranos_.

"I don't know," my Dad says. "I don't recognize anything."


	7. Chapter 7

**The Big Tree (Part Two)**

I was driving my father to visit an old military friend a few cities away. On our way there he decided he wanted to visit some family that lived somewhere in between, so I made a little detour to accommodate him.

It was no big deal. I know how to get there, and I know the area.

"This does not look familiar," my Dad says.

I continue to drive down the street I'm on. I say nothing. Between you and me, I'm on the right street.

Out of the corner of my eye I see him looking out up and down the street. Side to side. His head must be on a swivel.

"I don't think you're on the right street," he tells me, his eyes bugging out. "I don't recognize the area."

One funny thing about my Dad I've noticed the few times we've traveled together, his eyes tend to bug out when he thinks I'm lost. I'm not lost. I've got my GPS to prove it. Only my Dad doesn't know I'm using it. Another funny thing I've noticed is that his eyes tend to bug out in direct proportion to how lost he thinks I am.

My Dad's old school. He doesn't understand how a GPS works, so he doesn't trust it. (I don't understand how it works, either, for that matter, but, to tell the truth, all I care about is that it does work. It doesn't matter to me how.)

"How does it know?" he once asked.

I tried to explain to him something about satellites and car positioning, but, to tell the truth, I didn't know what I was talking about, so the fault was probably mine that he didn't understand. I have the same problem with airplanes flying. I understand, in theory, the concept of "lift" and "thrust," but what I don't understand is how a metal tube that's tens of thousands of pounds heavy is able to get off the ground and stay in the air.

Don't judge me. My first mother-in-law didn't think we landed on the moon, because "there isn't an electrical cord that long." You probably think I'm making that up, but it's true. I'm not saying the mother of my first wife was stupid, but it took her an hour to cook Minute Rice. But I digress...

"...and that's how the GPS works, Dad."

"Yeah, but how does it _know?_"

"Just humor him", was the advice my wife gave me before we left. So I do.

"I'll stop at the next gas station, and check my map," I tell him. A map he understands, so he says nothing for awhile, but continues to scope out the area. As long as he thinks I'm going to do something, it's almost as good as my doing it. It appeases him for awhile. It buys me time.

But not a whole lot.

"I don't recognize _any_ of these houses," he says, firmly. "I know the house, and I know there's a big tree in the front yard."

"Hey, what's that?" I say, trying to distract him. He doesn't fall for it. He continues to study the houses, the streets, the neighborhoods. Fool me once, I guess.

So I slow down to please him-going slower always does-but, trust me, I know where I'm at. The last street sign had the right name. The numbers painted on the driveways have the right numbers. He continues to look out the window.

"Nothing looks familiar," he says. Sadly, nothing ever does. "I know that the house has a big tree in the front yard, and I just don't see it."

I can see the house just down the block. I slow down even more, hoping he recognizes it.

"Isn't that it, Dad?" I say, pointing to the house just ahead of us.

"That can't be it," he tells me, firmly. "The house we're looking for has a _big_ tree out front. That tree's not so big."

"Dad, I think that's the house."

"Can't be. The tree..."

"I don't know, the tree looks pretty big to me."

"I don't think so. I don't think it's the house."

"I think it is," I tell him, as I come to a stop. "Look familiar?"

Dad is shaking his head.

"I don't think so, son. I know the house, and this is not it."

"Let me check the address." I pretend to look at the directions my wife had given us. And then I pretend to look at the map. "Dad, this is the correct address."

Dad takes a good, hard look at the house.

"Hmm... ahh... well..." he says. "I guess it could be the house. Yeah, I'm starting to recognize it. See how big the tree is? I told you it was big."

We've been parked out there long enough for his niece to come out and see if we're okay.

"We were worried," she tells us. "Did you get lost?"

It must run in the family.

We step out of the car to greet her. The rest of the family come out. Hugs and hellos are passed around like food at a family gathering. As everybody walks toward the house I can hear my Dad say: "Yeah, I knew this was the house because I recognized that big tree in the front. That's what I kept telling my son, look for the tree, it's big, but he didn't believe me. Yep, I knew this was the house." As I walk along behind them, I look up and down the street.

_Every_ house on this block has a big tree in their front yards.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chocolate And Vanilla**

We were all sitting at the table, having finished a nice meal, and enjoying a cup of coffee. We were reading the newspaper, or, rather, my Dad was reading the newspaper. I helped myself to the sections he didn't enjoy reading. Like the Sports section.

It's been that way ever since I was a kid. My Dad got the newspaper first, and I got the leftovers. Like the comics. It works out.

"Dad," my wife asks my father sweetly, with the patience of a Mother Theresa, "do you want any ice cream?"

My Dad looked up from the newspaper. The one _I_ bought.

"Huh... well... hmm..." he says. "What's that again?"

"Would you like some ice cream?"

"Some what?"

"Ice cream. Would you like some?"

"Well, yeah... I could eat some ice cream."

That wasn't exactly what my wife was asking, but it was close enough.

"What flavor would you like?" my wife asked him.

"Huh... well... hmm... What flavor do I want?"

"Yes, Dad. What flavor do you want?"

"What flavor do I want... what flavor do I want? Well, I think... hmm... What flavor do you have?"

"We have chocolate and vanilla."

"You have what?"

We only have the same two flavors we always have. My wife might buy an occasional flavor, Cherry Garcia or Coffee with chocolate chunks are particular favorites, but we usually always have chocolate and vanilla.

"Huh... well... hmm..." my Dad considered the possibilities. "You said chocolate and vanilla?"

"Yes, Dad, we have chocolate and vanilla."

"Well, I really don't know. Hmm, you said chocolate and vanilla?"

"Yes, chocolate and vanilla."

I think on some level my wife was being amused by all this. I just stayed quiet. Enjoying the show.

"Well," my Dad thought about it, and then he thought about it a little more. "Is that all you have?"

"Yes, Dad. Just chocolate and vanilla."

"No strawberry?"

"No strawberry."

"Well, in that case, let me have vanilla, but not too much. You always give me too much."

My wife then turns to me. I'm surprised she still has the energy.

"Honey," she says, "would _you_ like some ice cream?"

I know she's being polite asking my Dad first, but it still irks me a bit that I get asked second in my own home. Maybe the Native Americans catered to their elders, but looked what happened to the Native Americans.

"No, thank you, sweetie," I tell her. "I'm going out for a walk."

Off some cliff.


	9. Chapter 9

My father was very respected in the neighborhood I grew up in. Years after my friends grew up, they would always come by to visit and pay their respects to my Mom and Dad. Even after my friends had gotten married, had kids, and moved far away to the promise land of California.

Myself, after I grew up, visiting the parents of my friends was one of the last things I was interested in doing.* I'd list it just behind getting my prostate checked. One of my friend's dads was our grade school's janitor. It's an honorable job. We never stopped making fun of him.

One story/legend about my father that circulated around the kids in the neighborhood was how in World War II he saved his platoon in the Philippines by catching a bomb that had been dropped from a Japanese warplane. I don't know where this story originated. I never heard Dad kid us about it, or make reference to it. As kids, me and my friends were in too much awe of my Dad to ever ask him about it. Plus, since my Dad was a firm believer in capital punishment, we had learned early on to keep our distance. Whatever trouble we were interested in causing, we knew to cause it far from home.

The proof of this particular heroism was a hollowed out bomb-shell he had in his storage closet. That's where he kept his "souvenirs" from the war. His uniform. A gas mask. A Japanese "pillow" girl.** Where he got that hollowed out bomb-shell, who knows?

The story went: a Japanese bomber flew over his platoon, dropped the bomb, and Dad caught it in his arms-thus saving his buddies. It was our next-door neighbor, Sal, who told me that. My friends and I would sneak into the storage closet, take it out, and then imitate my Dad catching the bomb.

Speaking of Sal, he was one of four brothers who lived next door. Sadly, a few years later he discovered he loved drugs more than he loved himself, so his mother occasionally had to run over to our house so Dad could save her from her own son.

One particular story I remember is that Sal came home stoned on something he's never admitted to, and told his mother to make him a sandwich. She did, but, he later told us, when she placed it in front of him he lifted it to his mouth to take a bite, and the sandwich said: "Don't eat me!" That freaked him out even more than he was freaked out to begin with, and he started screaming at his mom and throwing things around. She ran next door, got my Dad, and he came over and told him to take off. He did. That was how much my Dad was feared and respected, that a drugged out troublemaker would obey him.

A few trips to prison finally got Sal on the right road, but by then it was too late. The only future he had in front of him was one that included a lot of manual labor. If there's one thing I have to thank my Dad for, is that he saved me from a life like Sal's. Not that I was a bad kid, but why does being bad have to be so much fun?

That reminds me of when I was 16 years-old and feeling my oats. My Dad was quick to give us a smack if we mouthed off to him or Mom, especially Mom, and I guess that's just what I had done. I blocked his punch as easily as David Carradine in _Kung Fu_. Let's just say that, with my Dad, I learned that it's better to dodge one of his punches than to block it. Less disrespectful.

And that reminds me of another story, this one my Dad told me of a time, back when he was feeling_ his_ oats. He was in a bar when he got into a fight with some guy over some girl whose lack of virtue was in dire need of defending. Threats were made. Fists were raised. And my Dad, who was smoking at the time, made the challenge: "You won't even be able to knock the cigarette from my mouth."

After that night, the guy's nickname around the neighborhood was _Indio_ (The Spanish word for a man from India.), because of the dot in the middle of his forehead where my Dad stamped his cigarette out while he lay unconscious on the floor.

A neat trick my Dad once used in a fight was he invited the guy he was arguing with to step outside. My Dad opened the door, walked out first... and slammed the heavy wooden door on his opponent. Fight over.

I've never had to use that trick myself, but it was one of the things my Dad taught me that might come in handy someday.

*Well, there was that one mom I used to spy on as she was sunbathing in her backyard. I wouldn't have minded visiting _her_. Unfortunately, as I got older, so did she. I'll just have to be content to visit her in my dreams, where she's still the same age she was when I was ten.

**Just kidding about that last one.


	10. Chapter 10

My Dad and I have just returned home from an appointment with his doctor. It's 11am. Still early. He's studying the medicine his doctor prescribed, and which we've just picked up from the pharmacy.

"Can you believe the price of this medication?" he asks. Of course I can. I just paid for it. "Now _when_ am I supposed to take it?"

"The doctor said you have to take it in the morning when you first wake up," I tell him, "with lots of water. Or you can take it right before you go to bed. But you have to take it on an empty stomach."

We walk into the kitchen, and seat ourselves at the table. My wife comes up to say hello.

"How did it go at the doctor's?" she asks. "You guys hungry?"

I look over at my wife. It's been a long day, and it's not even noon. She can see it in my eyes.

"I'm not hungry, sweetie," I tell her.

"Well, I am!" my Dad pipes up. "What did you make?"

She starts to serve us, and Dad and I continue our conversation.

"So I take it in the morning when I get up." he tells me.

"That's right, or before you go to bed. The important thing is that you don't eat anything before you take it."

"But I can take it in the morning?"

"Yes," I repeat, "as soon as you get up, but before you eat anything."

"I can't eat _anything?"_

"That's right."

He looks at the food in front of him.

"But I'm hungry."

"You can eat now, Dad, but just not before taking your medicine."

He starts to dig in on the feast my wife just served him. She's a good cook. And my Dad's a good eater. They make a good team. But she knows the direction this conversation is taking. She gives me a little wave as she leaves. I give her a little smile.

A very little one.

_Chomp, chomp! _"Are you sure that's what the doctor said?" Dad says between bites. "I've always heard that you have to eat _before_ you take your medication."

"That's true, but with this medicine you have to take it on an empty stomach."

"I don't know about these pills. I don't think it'll do me any good."

"It might."

"And you're telling me I can take it in the morning or at night?"

"That's right. Take it as soon as you get up, or right before you go to bed, it just has to be on an empty stomach."

"But I'm hungry in the morning. Does this mean I can't eat all day?"

He takes another big bite of food.

"No, it means that you take it as soon as you get up. You can have breakfast after that. Or you can take it at night before you go to bed. It just has to be on an empty stomach."

"But I always have ice cream before I go to bed."

I'm too tired to answer. He continues...

"Well, I guess your wife can serve me less." _Chomp, chomp!_ "She always serves me too much. But why can't I just take it now? What difference does it make?"

"Because the doctor told you to. It has to be on an empty stomach."

"Doctors," he sniffs, and rubs his nose in disgust. "They don't know everything."

"Just do it, Dad."

"Okay, okay. So you're saying that I take the medication as soon as I wake up.

"You've got it, Dad. As soon as you get up, take your medicine. You can have breakfast after that."

"But sometimes I go for a walk with my dog before I have breakfast."

"That's fine, Dad. Just take your medicine when you wake up. Go on your walk, and when you get back you can eat."

"Hmmm... ahhh... I don't know about these characters. These doctors sometimes don't know what they're doing."

_Chomp, chomp, chomp! _He finally finishes his three course lunch and large desert.

"So I guess I take this medication right after I wake up and before I eat. After I brush my teeth and take my shower."

"That's right, Dad."

"Hmmm..." he says, checking out the bottle full of pills. "Ohhh... ahhh... well."

The pills are small. He's continued eating throughout this whole conversation. But he's finally done. He then gets up, grabs his medicine, and tells me before he walks away:

"I guess I'll go take my medication now."


	11. The Shower Curtain Rod (Part One)

**The Shower Curtain Rod (Part One)**

"Honey," my wife says to me. She's giving me her sweetest smile. I know something's up. "I need you to fix the shower curtain in Dad's bathroom. It fell."

_Again_? I think to myself**.**

"I just fixed it," I tell her.

"Fix it again," she tells me.

"It can't be broken."

"And yet it is."

_Again?_ I think to myself. _Again?_ I must have fixed that darn thing, what, eight, nine, ten times? It seems I retired from a job I enjoyed just to spend my retirement fixing my Dad's shower curtain.

"The problem," I tell her, "is that Dad uses the curtain for support when he gets out of the shower. We have the same kind of rod in our shower, and how many times has it fallen. Zero times."

"Just fix it," my wife tells me, thus ending the conversation. What she doesn't tell me is, "He's _your_ Dad." My wife is good that way. She never tells me, "He's your Dad."

She just tells me to fix the things my Dad breaks.

That's the funny thing, at one time my Dad could fix anything, and I mean _anything_. During World War Two, he built a washing machine* while fighting the Japanese. Well, not exactly _while_ he was fighting the Japanese, but while he was stationed in the jungles of New Guinea, and occasionally fighting the Japanese. I know that story is true, because I've seen pictures of the washing machine. A 25-gallon barrel fixed to a Jeep.

Just then, my Dad walks in. He sits down. Ready for breakfast.

"What happened to the shower curtain, Dad?" I ask him.

He looks over his shoulder to see what my wife is cooking for him. She wisely keeps her back to us.

"It's broken," he tells me.

"What happened?"

"It just fell. I could fix it, but I know you like to take care of this stuff."

I don't know where he got the idea that I like to fix things. I remember, when I was a boy, I once told him that when I grew up I'd hire somebody to fix things for me. He laughed at me, and, when I grew up, I understood why he laughed, even though I was offended at the time.

"It sure does break a lot."

"Yeah," my Dad says. "It sure does."

My wife puts a plate of food in front of him, and Dad starts to eat with the enthusiasm of a man who doesn't have to constantly fix the same shower curtain.

"The problem is," my Dad continues, pointing a forkful of scrambled egg at me, "there's something wrong with the rod in the shower area, it keeps falling. They just don't make stuff like they used to. The stuff is cheap. Those characters that built this house knew they were using cheap materials. That's why the rods keep falling by themselves."

_Not the "rods," Dad,_ I want to tell him. _The rod in my shower is fine._

My wife glances over her shoulder to see my reaction. It reminds me to keep my temper. I take issue with my Dad telling me we live in a cheap house. My house is not cheap. I'd tell you how much it cost us, but I don't want the Occupy Wall Streeters protesting on my front lawn.

So I fix it. What's the big deal?

And three more times, before the month is out, the rod comes off the wall.

*I don't even know if washing machines had even been invented yet, and, since I'm not getting paid for this, I'd rather write this story than look up unnecessary facts.


	12. The Toilet Paper Holder (Part Two)

**The Toilet Paper Holder (Part Two)**

"Honey," my wife says to me. She's giving me her sweetest smile. I know something's up. "You need to repair the toilet roll holder. Dad said it came off the cabinet."

"What?" I almost spit out my coffee. "How did _that_ happen?" The holder is bolted onto the side of the cabinet, and the cabinet is made out of one inch plywood.

Actually, I know how it happened, or, at least, I can put two and two together. It was Dad. Godzilla may have lumbered through downtown Tokyo knocking down buildings, but Godzilla's got nothing compared to my Dad.

So when I ask my wife how it happened, I'm not really looking for an answer. I mean, I _know_ how the toilet roll holder got broken, but my wife is kind enough to give me an answer anyway.

"Dad says that the house cleaner is rough on the stuff, and she probably pulled it out."

I raise one eyebrow at her. I look in the direction of my father. He's in the great room. Watching baseball. His favorite pastime. In other words, he's ignoring our entire conversation. If my wife were to whisper to me that she was going to Sam's, he'd beat her to the car, but this particular conversation is of no interest to him.

"I'll check it out," I tell her.

"Dad!" my wife calls out to him. For some reason she wants to include him in on this. I've learned that it's sometimes better to not to confuse my Dad with too many facts. Do what you need to do first, and then apologize, if you have to, after. "Dad!"

"Huh...what?" my father says, one eye on the TV.

"Dad, we're going to go into your room to fix the shower rod and toilet holder."

(What? The shower curtain rod, too?)

"You're going to fix what?" he asks.

"We're going to fix the rod and toilet roll holder in your room."

This information doesn't even deserve one eye's worth of attention from him.

"Yeah, that house cleaner is rough with the cleaning. She pulled it out. She broke off the holder by cleaning too hard."

"Maybe it wasn't her," I chime in.

"Yeah, it was her."

"How do you know?"

"I just know."

"Maybe," I say, slowly. My wife knows I'm just teasing my Dad, but she still gives me a cut-it-out look. My wife gives me good advice. And I usually come out ahead when I follow it. Too bad I never do. "Maybe she used your toilet, and, when she got up, she used the toilet roll holder for support, and her weight broke it off the cabinet."

"She'd better not be using my toilet," he warns.

"I'm not saying she did, but if she's gotta go, she's gotta go."

"Well, she'd just better not be going in my toilet."

"Okay, Dad, okay," I tell him. He's starting to get agitated at the thought of our maid using his toilet, so I back off a little to let him settle down.

"I know, Dad," my wife helpfully adds, trying to distract him from the image of our maid sitting on his toilet seat-the closest he's ever come to having sex with another woman since he met and married Mom. "The house cleaner broke it."

I get up, and go into his room. I check it, and I find two large holes on the side of the cabinet where the toilet roll holder should be. This holder was installed to stay put and not come off. I did my investigation, and it was just as I thought, my Dad was sitting on the toilet, and, while he was getting up, he probably used the holder for support, and his weight pulled it off the side. Trust me, I watch CSI.

So I fix the rod-_again_-and reinstall the holder. And then I have an idea. I run it past my wife, and she agrees.

"I don't want bathtub handles," my Dad tells me. He's firm about it. "I'm just fine. I have no problem getting out of the tub."

"But, Dad," my wife says, "they'll make it easier for you to get in and out of the tub."

"I don't need them, and I don't want them. You'll be wasting your money."

"Pop," I lie, "we're installing them in our bathtub, too."

"Well, I don't care if you need handles to get in and out of your bathtub, but I don't."

"Dad," we both say, but it's no use. His mind is made up.

"You don't need to install it. I'm telling you, I don't need the handles."

And then one day my Dad goes to Sam's with my wife. If you think it was some kind of grand plan to get him out of the house for a few hours, you'd be right, and I take the opportunity to install them. When they come back, my wife comes in, looks at me, and I give her a little nod.

"Dad," she tells him, "guess what? We installed that bathtub handle you wanted. Isn't that a nice surprise?"

My Dad's confused for a second, and then he says, "But I didn't want bathtub handles."

"Well, we just installed it in case you need to use it. You don't _have_ to use it, but it's there just in case."

"...well, I don't need it..."

Months later, my Dad tells us how much he likes the hand support. "You should have installed it long ago." And, you know what?

The shower curtain rod hasn't fallen since.


	13. There's An Old Joke

There's an old joke that goes:

An elderly man says to his doctor, "Doc, I have this problem. I keep throwing these silent little farts all day long. _(See? There goes one now)_. I can't help it, doc. I keep farting and farting, but they make no noise. (_Oops! There goes another one.)_ I don't know what's wrong with me. I can throw the most massive farts, and they'll make no sound. (_Ahhh, that's three in a row.)_ What do you think?"

"Well," the doctor says. "I think you need to have your hearing checked."

Now, I told you_ that_ story to tell you _this_ story:

My Dad has his own room. His room, actually, is in a guest house in the front of our main house. If it's not called the Father-In-Law House, then it should be. His room has its own satellite TV, radio/CD player, telephone, and refrigerated air. The problem is that he likes to watch TV in the greatroom of the main house, which forces everybody-mainly me-to watch TV somewhere else.

And that's where my Dad is right now. He's watching baseball. In fact, he's been watching baseball all day long.

"Who's playing, Dad?" I'll ask him.

"I don't know," he'll answer, and keep watching.

If it's not the Yankees, he really doesn't care who's playing. Now, I like baseball as much as the next guy, as long as the next guy is someone who doesn't like baseball, and I have fond memories of watching baseball on TV as a toddler, when the only other options were _The Edge of Night_ and _Sing Along With Mitch_. When and where I lost my interest in baseball, who knows? But it's gone. No use crying over spilled milk.

Speaking of milk, I'm kind of hungry, so I pour myself a glass of 2% and start to fix myself something to eat.

"Do you want something, Dad?" I ask.

"What?"

"Would you like something to eat?"

"Would I like something to eat?"

"I'm fixing myself something, and would like to know if you would like me to fix _you_ something."

"_You're_ making it?"

"I'm the only one here, Dad."

"Would I like something to eat."

"Yes."

"And _you're_ making it."

"Yes."

"No, thanks." My Dad is the only one who can make a polite statement sound insulting.

Well, more for me.

I'm not too picky about what I eat, and that's probably why Dad turned me down. I tend to keep things simple. It's not that I don't appreciate good food, I do. And it's not that my wife isn't a good cook, she is. It's just that in my bachelor years I got used to eating pretty much anything that was available. Fast food. Leftovers. Meals by girlfriends trying to prove they can cook. I kid my wife that I married her for only two reasons: She could cook in the kitchen, and she could cook in the bedroom.*

Meanwhile, my Dad gets up from his chair and goes to his little house with all the deluxe accommodations. I grab some potato bread, Miracle Whip, various lunch meats, and lettuce, tomato, and such. I decide to live large, so I even grab an avocado.

Ten minutes have passed, and no Dad.

I tear off a couple of lettuce leaves. Rinse them, put them on the side to dry. Slice the tomato. Do the same with the avocado. I look toward where my Dad had been sitting. Still no Dad.

So I grab four slices of potato bread, and slather them with Miracle Whip. Heck, I decide to live life on the edge, so I grab mustard from the refrigerator, and slather on a little bit of that, too. It should give my sandwich an interesting combination of sweetness and tart.

My Dad's still gone. The fact that he's left on the TV annoys me, and he does that constantly. He'll sit, turn on the TV, get up, and leave. I think I've given him enough time, so I walk over, grab the remote, and turn it off. If he's not back by now, he's not coming back, I reason.

I guess I shouldn't let it annoy me so much. I'm sure I did the same thing when I was a kid. I probably used to get up and and leave Mitch Miller warbling along with the bouncing ball, so I should cut my Dad some slack. But I'm sure, even as a toddler, I would turn off the TV the majority of the time. Do you know why I know this?

Because my Dad wouldn't have tolerated anything less.

_Settle down, settle down,_ I tell myself. If I let myself get too irked about Dad not turning off the TV, I'll ruin my appetite.**

So I get back to my two sandwiches. Lettuce leaves torn and rinsed-check! Tomato and avocado sliced-check! Potato breads properly slathered-check! I open the package of turkey slices and put a healthy amount on two separate slices of bread. Heck, it's turkey... I pile it on a little higher. Top it off with the lettuce, tomato, and avocado. Perfect.

Just then, my Dad comes back. He walks back to the TV. Sees it's off. I don't know if this confuses him, or if he's upset because I had the nerve to turn it off. He stands in front of the black screen. He stands there for a few minutes, trying to decide what to do, I guess. Meanwhile, I serve myself a little more milk, and top off the sandwich with the remaining two slices of bread.

I keep my head down, ignoring my Dad, and try to enjoy my meal. I take the first bite of my sandwich. Mmm, that's good, but you know what it needs? Some chips. So I walk over to the pantry, and grab myself a bag of Vinegar & Salt chips. I can hear him mumbling something. He mumbles to himself for a few minutes, before he starts walking back to his room.

"What's that, Dad?" I ask.

"Nothing," he mumbles some more.

To get to his guest house he has to walk right past me, through the kitchen, exit the french doors that lead to the patio, follow a little pathway, and-bam!-he's home. The part of that sentence that's important is the part where I say he has to walk right past me, because...

I lift my sandwich to take another bite, when-BRRRAPPP!-he cuts loose with a huge fart just as he's passing me.

He mumbles something again, and walks out of the kitchen.

I put my sandwich down, and walk away. My appetite gone. I don't know if it was intentional, accidental, or revenge for my having turned off a baseball game he really wasn't interested in. All I know is...

...he ruined my meal.

*But let's keep that between you and me.

**Did I mention that he does it ALL the time? For some reason, instead of turning off the TV, he'll just get up, walk away, and leave it for us to worry about.


	14. Trying To Watch TV

My Dad's favorite sport is baseball. I don't know why. Maybe it's because he comes from a time when there was nothing else to do. Back when he was growing up, it didn't matter that a baseball game could go on for hours and hours. And hours. What else were you going to do? Go home, cut an apple in half, and watch it turn brown?

My wife tries to make it as enjoyable as she can for him. She fluffs his pillows. She makes him snacks. She even sits him down and turns on the TV for him. The only problem is, he won't stay sitting down. He gets up and goes to his room constantly.

And when he does, after ten or fifteen minutes, we'll change the channel. But my Dad must have some kind of radar, because, when we do, that's exactly the time he decides to come back. He'll walk into the family room, stand on one side of the TV, look at it, at us, at it, at us, and ask no one in particular, "Is the game over?"

He knows the game isn't over. I have a sneaking suspicion that he's secretly been watching it in his room, on his TV, laughing to himself-"Heh, heh, heh."-and when he thinks enough time has passed for us to have changed the channel, he comes back.

"No," I'll tell him, "but you went to your room, so we thought you were watching it there." I give him hints that are so big, they could be rolling down a cave at Indiana Jones.

So we'll change the TV back for him. After awhile, my wife will get up and fiddle around in the kitchen. She'll clean something, or make us some popcorn. I'll pick up a magazine, and go thumbing through it. You know I'm bored, when reading what Martha Stewart has to say is the more entertaining alternative.

Dad then gets up, and goes to his room. He doesn't say, "I'll be back." He doesn't say, "Goodnight." He doesn't say, "Excuse me, but I've got to go see a man about a horse." He just leaves, without a word.

My wife eventually makes her way back, and sits besides me. I'll put the magazine down. And we'll talk for a bit. After another ten to fifteen minutes have passed, we'll look at each other. I'll pick up the remote, and change the channel. With any lucks there will be a rerun of _Wings_, an old TV show we both like. That, or _Third Rock From The Sun_.

"Hey," I'll say, "I haven't seen this episode."

And right on cue, my Dad will walk in. He'll look at the TV, at us, at the TV, and back at us.

"Is the game over?"

'When you left, Dad," I tell him, "I thought that meant you didn't want to watch the game."

"No, I want to watch the game."

So we change the television back to baseball. Dad continues standing, watching the game for a few minutes, before he walks off again.

Ten minutes later, no Dad.

Twenty minutes later, no Dad.

"What do you think?" my wife will ask me.

"I think he's not coming back," I'll say, but I know better.

"Should we change it?"

"He'll only come back, and we'll have to change it again."

"How does he know?"

"I don't know. He just does."

"Do you think he has us bugged?" I know my wife is kidding. She has that wry smile she gets when she's being facetious. My wife is funny, but she has a very dry sense of humor. If you miss the visual cues, you'll think she was serious. She pretends to look around. She points. "Did that mirror used to be there?"

So I change the TV. Again. Wow, _Homicide: Life On The Streets. _That's one of my all-time favorite shows. The only thing better would be _St. Elsewhere._ Yeah, I'm old.

At the thirty minute mark my Dad comes back, right on schedule. He has papers in his hands, and tells me he wants me to help him with his bank statements.

My wife gives me that wry smile again. Then, without a word, she gets up and goes upstairs. She gives me a little salute on her way out. She knows better than to stay.

"What's the problem, Dad?"

Dad sits himself down at the kitchen table. So I have to get up, go over, and see what's bothering him.

"I don't know about my bank," he tells me. "Those characters, they'll cheat you blind if you don't watch them."

"What do you mean, Dad?"

He shows me his statement. I look it over. It looks fine to me.

"Those characters are after my money," he tells me. "You have to watch them."

He asks about this deposit, and that one. They are the same deposits that are made every month, and in the same amounts. He asks me about a few of the deductions. I tell him, well, Dad, on this day you did this, and on that day you paid for that. Everything checks out, and thirty minutes after we began, we're done.

My Dad gets up, he takes a step toward his room, then stops. Looks at the TV. He picks up the remote, changes the channel back to the baseball game he keeps not watching, and then leaves. Back to his room. To finish not watching the game, I suppose.

I sit down. Turn off the TV. There's nothing I really want to watch, anyway. After awhile, when she feels there's no longer a disturbance in The Force, my wife comes back down, and sits beside me.

"Is the game over?" she asks.


	15. Least You Think

Least you think I consider my Dad a burden, I don't. It's just if all I wrote about were unicorns and rainbows, both you and I would be bored.

Besides, I find everything my Dad does incredibly entertaining. Maybe not at the time, but when I look back. Now I understand the saying, "I'm not laughing at you, I'm laughing with you." I'm not laughing _at_ my Dad, because I'm just like him. I'm laughing _with_ him because I can see what the future has in store for me.

Old age takes pity on no one.

One of the reasons we bought this particular house, is because it had a small guest house in the front where we knew Dad could live and have his privacy. It was a way of him keeping his independence, and yet letting us keep an eye on him at the same time.

In his home away from home he has his own TV with its own satellite signal. Now that I think about it, his TV gets more stations than mine does. He has a radio/CD player. Telephone. Refrigerated air. Heck, it sounds so good, I think _I'm_ going to go live there.

The problem is that he likes to watch TV in the greatroom of the main house_-my_ house-and that forces everybody else to watch TV someplace else. And, while he's busy watching TV, he's also busy complaining that our house is too cold.

"Why don't you put on a sweater, Dad?" my wife will ask him. "Do you want me to get you one?"

"I don't want to wear a sweater," my Dad will say.

"But if you're cold, a sweater might help warm you up."

"The problem isn't that _I'm_ cold, the problem is that _the house_ is cold."

So my wife will feel sorry for him, turn up the heat, and the rest of us have to suffer.

"Dad," I've told him, sweating like a pig. "Maybe you'd be more comfortable watching TV in your room."

"No," he's told me. "I'm comfortable here."

"You could watch what you want to watch."

"I do that here."

"You could have the house as warm as you want."

"I don't know, it's pretty warm here. Except when it's cold."

So what can I do? I sit in a hot house watching something on TV that doesn't particularly entertain me. And, man, I hate the heat. I try to avoid it like it was the police. You can dress for the cold. You can put on a sweater. You can wear a scarf. But there's nothing you can do about the heat. When it's hot, it's just hot.

And the times I beat my Dad to the TV, he'll come in, sit down, and watch for a bit. And then he'll look at me, and then back at the TV. At me, and then the TV. Me. The TV.

"There's not a baseball game on?" he'll ask me.

He knows perfectly well there's a baseball game on. We have entire channels devoted to nothing but baseball games. So at any give time, my Dad can watch one if he wants to... and he _always_ wants to.

"This show's pretty good, Dad. You should give it a chance."

"Oh, okay." And he'll watch. For awhile. And then he'll look at me, then back at the TV. At me, and then the TV. Me. The TV.

"There's not a baseball game on?"

My wife will finally feel sorry for him and change whatever it is I'm watching.

"Can you also turn up the heat?" he'll tell her. "It's too cold in here."

Once again, I can't watch my programs. I think he pretends to watch baseball on the outside, and laughs at me on the inside.

"Heh, heh, heh," he'll laugh to himself. "Heh, heh, heh."

And, trust me, I understand why my father prefers watching baseball. He's a bit hard of hearing, so it's hard for him to follow the stories on the programs I watch. Baseball, he understands. And when he can't hear the color commentators, he makes it up himself.

"You know," he'll say, in between chewing on the snacks my lovely wife provides. _Smack, smack, smack._ "These games are fixed."

"Are they, Dad?"

"Yeah-_smack, smack_-fixed. I don't even know why I watch them."

The bases might be loaded, and the batter will hit a home run.

"See? I knew it. I knew that batter was going to hit a home run. I had that feeling-_smack, smack, smack_-the games are fixed-_smack_-I knew they were going to win the game."

"Did you, Dad?"

"Ahhh, yeah. They're all fixed so the owners can make more money." he'll laugh, and shake his head a bit. "I don't know, I don't know. How else can you explain their scoring four runs and winning?"

"Maybe the batter just hit a home run, Dad. I mean, somebody's got to win."

"Nah, they're fixed. How else can you explain it?"

By this time my wife will have already gone upstairs to bed. I'll decide to join her.

"Goodnight, Dad," I'll tell him.

"Huh? Ahh... what?"

"I'm going to bed now, Dad. Can you turn off the TV and lights before you go to bed?"

"Sure, son. Don't worry."

And then sometime in the middle of the night I'll wake up to check the doors, and I'll find the TV on, the lights on, and the heater on. The door leading out of our house and to his will be unlocked. And Dad will be in his room. Sleeping like a baby. He knows how to turn everything off, but for some reason he won't do it.

Maybe that's his way of paying me back for leaving him alone.


	16. My Wife's A Great Cook

My wife's a great cook. She makes everything from scratch, and she'll spend hours cooking in the kitchen. In fact, she's such a good cook, she can even make English food taste good, and any food you have to put vinegar on to improve the flavor of, well, let's just say you'd have to admit that it would be a challenge.

One time my Mom, when my wife wasn't around, asked me who the better cook was.

I had to be honest, but diplomatic.

"Mom," I told her, "when it comes to cooking Mexican food, you're the best. But my wife's the better cook when it comes to different kinds of food."

Since Mexican food is all my mother ever cooked, she was happy with my answer.

One time, my wife made some great fried rice. It had corn, it had peas, it had carrots. But what it mainly had were large chunks of perfectly seasoned chicken. Moist and tender. Just like my wife.

I served myself. My father, on the other hand, likes to be served, or he won't eat. He's old-school that way. Myself, I don't believe in being hungry.

So my wife serves my Dad. Napkin, utensils, drink, dessert... it's all on the table. All he has to do is sit and eat. And eat he does. Even when my Dad isn't feeling well he still has a healthy appetite. Once, when he was sick, my mother asked him how he could still eat.

"Hey," he told her, very sincerely, "it's not my stomach's fault I'm sick."

So, anyway, the fried rice is great. I tell my wife it's great. She smiles that modest smile of hers. She knows it's great.

Dad, meanwhile, is still chowing down. _Chomp, chomp, chomp!_ He cleans his plate. If he was a kid, I could imagine him lifting the plate to his face and licking it clean.

"Did you like the fried rice, Dad?" I ask him. It was obvious he did.

"What?"

"The fried rice, did you like it?"

"The fried rice?"

"Yeah."

"Did I like it?"

"Yeah."

"It was good," he says. "but the chicken was kind of tough."

My wife looks at me, gets up from the table, and walks away.

"Where's she going?" my Dad asks, and serves himself some more fried rice.*

The thing of it is, that's my Dad's idea of a compliment. When my Mom was still alive, their air conditioner broke, and they needed a new one. Out of the goodness of my heart, and with a little nudging from my wife, I decided to buy them a new one. The store we bought it from gave us a day and a time it would be delivered and installed, and we made it a point to be there, just in case, you know, anything went wrong.

The workers got up on the roof, removed the old one, and brought it down. My Dad and I took a look at it. Yeah, we could see it was passed it's expiration date. Just like my ex-wife.

The workers then brought out the new one. As they took it out of the box, my Dad took a close look at it, and said: "_Plastic?_ It's made out of plastic? Where'd you buy it, the dollar store?"

No, actually we bought it from Sears. And, for the record, only the shell of the air conditioner was made out of plastic. Everything on the inside was still the same. It makes sense. It's a way to save money, sell it for less, and make it lighter to carry and move around. I won't mention the actual brand I bought, but it was a name brand and the model I bought was top of the line. It was actually more air conditioner than they needed.

But, like I said, that's my Dad's way of giving a compliment.


	17. Shrimp For Dinner

"Dad, I'm cooking shrimp for dinner," my wife asks. "Do you want regular shrimp or coconut?"

Meanwhile, the guy who's actually helping make dinner... _his_ opinion goes unrequested. Who's that guy I'm talking about? It's me.

And I really can't get too upset by it, because my wife is just trying to make my Dad feel at home. It wasn't that long ago that my Mom passed away, and, after a brief time of him living on his own, we decided to ask him to move in with us. It's not a decision I regret. Given the opportunity to do it all over again, I would

But it's been tough. You can't have two alpha males in the same wolf pack without one wolf becoming incredibly annoyed at the other.

In the old days, the wise Native American warriors used to walk off into the distance, never to return, after reaching a certain age.*

Yeah, I can see the wisdom in that. Anyway...

"What?" my Dad says.

"I'm cooking shrimp for dinner. Do you want regular or coconut?"

"You're cooking dinner? What are you cooking?"

"I'm cooking shrimp. Would you like regular or coconut"

"Did you say shrimp?"

"Yes, Dad. Shrimp. Would you like regular or coconut?"

By this time I have my head down, so my wife can't see me laughing. That's what she gets for not asking _me_ how I would like the shrimp prepared. I can feel her eyes boring down into the top of my head like angry twin lasers. She knows I'm laughing at her.

"You're cooking shrimp?" my Dad continues. "I like shrimp. Yeah, hmm, that sounds good."

Pause.

"Would you like regular or coconut?" my wife tries again.

"What?" my Dad says again.

**"Would You Like Regular Or Coconut?"**

"What are you yelling at me for?" my Dad says. A bit indignantly, I might add. "I can hear."

And it's true, my Dad _can_ hear. Unfortunately, he only seems to hear the things he's not supposed to hear. Never the things he's supposed to.

"Dad!" I could yell at him. "There's a fire! Grab your dog and get out!"

"What?" my Dad would say, not moving his eyes off the TV.

"A fire! Get out!"

"What are you yelling at me for? I can hear!" he'd yell back. And then, "Are you grilling chicken? Save me a leg."

On the other hand, my Dad could be sitting down watching his two favorite baseball teams playing each other on TV, and I could be in the kitchen with my wife, and if I lean over and whisper in her ear, "Let's go upstairs," my Dad would yell out at us, "If you're going upstairs, can you bring me back that soft blanket I like?" Anyway...

So my wife apologizes for yelling, and my Dad says, "What kind of shrimp did you say?"

"Regular or coconut. Which one would you like?"

My Dad's paying attention now, so he kind of hears the two choices.

"Hmm... regular. What's the other kind?"

"Coconut."

"Coconut? Hmm, yeah... I like coconut shrimp."

"So you want coconut, then?"

"What's the other kind?"

My wife pauses. She's getting flustered now. Me? I'm still chuckling under my breath. Personally, I prefer coconut. I don't know why my wife is giving my Dad a choice. If she feels like eating regular shrimp, she should make regular shrimp. If she feels like eating coconut shrimp, then she should make coconut. I don't care, and it's that simple. You see, my wife has the good fortune of being married to someone who appreciates and will eat whatever she cooks.

"Regular," my wife says.

"What's regular?"

My wife lets out a sigh. And then she explains how she prepares the shrimp, and the seasonings she uses. I don't think my Dad understood a word of it. Heck, even _my_ eyes started to glaze over.

"I like coconut," my Dad says, without really answering the question. I think he was just taking the path of least resistance, decision making-wise.

So coconut shrimp it is. I win, without even having to play the game, and, besides which, I got a good chuckle out of the whole thing as well.

I remember when I was a kid, my mother _never_ cooked shrimp, so marrying my wife was almost an introduction to the joys of shellfish, those little cockroaches of the sea. The closest thing to shrimp my mother ever cooked was liver, and that's not close at all.

I also remember that to eat that liver I had to add ketchup to it to get it down. A lot of ketchup. In those days, what you were served is what you ate. If you didn't eat, you went hungry. The way it should be. Go to those countries where people are starving, and you don't have picky eaters. You don't have eating disorders. You don't have morbid obesity. What you have is a country of people who would be grateful for some mudwater and a chickpea.

So, even though I might have preferred a hamburger (Come to think of it, why _didn't_ my Mom just make me hamburgers every night?), I ate pretty much whatever was put in front of me. I just added ketchup to whatever I didn't like to help me get it down. Liver? Ketchup. Beans? Ketchup. Heck, I even added ketchup to my scrambled eggs, and I _like_ scrambled eggs.

Why am I telling you all this? Because my wife takes her time preparing and cooking the coconut shrimp. She cooks for us with love, and, as that great philosopher Diana Ross said, "You can't hurry love."

My wife even makes some nice white rice to go with it. Some people have a hard time making rice just right. Not my wife. Her rice always comes out light and fluffy.

So my wife serves my Dad a nice plate of coconut shrimp on a bed of white rice. I count the pieces of shrimp. Hmm, he's got seven. I've only got six. Not that I'm keeping score or anything.

My Dad looks at his plate. Meanwhile, my wife serves herself, and sits down to eat with us. My Dad's still looking at his plate. I don't know what he's looking at. Me? I get started on mine. I don't believe in having a staring contest with my food.

"Do you have any ketchup?" my Dad finally asks. "I like ketchup on my shrimp."

"But it's coconut shrimp, Dad," my wife says softly.

"What?"

"It's coconut shrimp..."

I step in.

"Dad, it's coconut shrimp. You don't put ketchup on coconut shrimp. It's already seasoned. With coconut."

"But I like ketchup on my shrimp."

My wife doesn't even try to argue. She doesn't even say a word. She gets up, goes to the refrigerator, and brings back a bottle of ketchup. She hands it to my dad.

My Dad drowns his shrimp in ketchup, much like I used to do to the liver my mother would also cook with love. I find myself wishing I could tell her, "I'm sorry." Anyway...

My Dad spears a shrimp with his fork, so as to not get any ketchup on his fingers. He takes a bite.

"Mmm... ah... yeah," he smacks. _Smack, smack, smack._ "Oh, yeah... this shrimp is good." He turns to me.

"Your wife's a good cook," he tells me.

*What I really think happened back then was when a Native American became old, he just wandered off and forgot how to get back.


End file.
